GERALD O’BLANEY alone at a desk covered with Papers.
O’Bla. Of all the employments in life, this eternal balancing of accounts, see-saw, is the most sickening of all things, except it would be the taking the inventory of your stock, when you’re reduced to invent the stock itself;—then that’s the most lowering to a man of all things! But there’s one comfort in this distillery business—come what will, a man has always proof spirits.
Enter PAT COXE.
Pat. The whole tribe of Connaught men come, craving to be ped for the oats, counsellor, due since last Serapht{1} fair.
{Footnote 1: Shrovetide.}
O’Bla. Can’t be ped to-day, let ‘em crave never so.—Tell ‘em Monday; and give ‘em a glass of whiskey round, and that will send ‘em off contint, in a jerry.
Pat. I shall—I will—I see, sir. {Exit PAT COXE.
O’Bla. Asy settled that!—but I hope many more duns for oats won’t be calling on me this day, for cash is not to be had:—here’s bills plenty—long bills, and short bills—but even the kites, which I can fly as well as any man, won’t raise the wind for me now.
Re-enter PAT.
Pat. Tim McGudikren, sir, for his debt—and talks of the sub-sheriff, and can’t wait.